


All the Christmas fluff

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas, and it's possible that Mrs. Hudson let rabid elves into Sherlock and John's flat. It's also possible that Sherlock and John want the same thing for Christmas — each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



> [Snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/pseuds/snogandagrope) had a fairly detailed prompt that boiled down to "all the Christmas fluff." The next thing I knew, I had pages of Google docs filled with Christmas fluff research.
> 
> This fic has three chapters written and at least one, if not two, more to come. I hope to have it all posted by Sherlock's birthday — Jan. 6, Epiphany, the 12th day of Christmas — but it will depend on time constraints. This is the first time I've begun posting fic that wasn't finished, and I will do my best not to let it languish in WIP pergatory!
> 
> This first chapter is pure gen fluff. The second chapter isn't far off. The third chapter makes it, I think, to a teen rating. After that, all bets are off and the rating may rise. Or not.
> 
> (And, as always, thanks to [Nichellen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichellen/pseuds/Nichellen) for the beta-ing and Brit-picking.)
> 
> Merry Christmas!

John had just the sound of hurried feet taking 17 stairs two at a time — three steps with that last stride, the long-legged showoff — in warning. He straightened from his task, faced the entrance to the flat and squared his shoulders before the click of the sitting room door was followed by a quick flurry of words.

 

“This is Mycroft’s doing.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t even taken off his coat before the briefest of glances at the nearly ceiling-tall tree had him narrowing his eyes at John in accusation. Whether his crime was consorting with Sherlock’s fraternal nemesis or simply allowing the tree into into the flat, John wasn’t sure.

 

“It’s a Christmas tree,” John said, knowing better than to deny Mycroft’s involvement but also knowing better than to confirm the charge. “It’s not as if they’re hard to come by this time of year.”

 

“You’d be surprised,” Sherlock said, shedding his coat and tossing it on the peg by the door before approaching John and the pile of decorations scattered an arm’s length from the tree’s base. He reached out and stroked a finger along a cluster of needles before snapping off a three-pronged twig and bringing it to his nose to inhale.

 

“I really wouldn’t,” John said, resisting the urge to swat at Sherlock’s hand to prevent further mutilation of what he had to admit really was a perfect specimen of tree. Anthea had outdone herself on Mycroft’s behalf. “They have trees for sale in every garden centre in the city this time of year.”

 

“Not this one,” Sherlock said, the inflection in his voice on that last word not quite rude but also not quite free of disdain. “This is a hybrid that only grows in one place on the planet.”

 

“Seriously? How did I miss your monograph on Christmas trees?” John’s teasing grin blunted any sting the words might have carried.

 

“Because I don’t have a monograph on Christmas trees, John. Just this one variety. It is one of Mummy’s pet projects. She’s a dendrologist — she studies trees. Supposedly retired, but …” a flick of a wrist indicated Sherlock found that detail beside his point.

 

“She decided to crossbreed Nordmann firs with Norfolk pines to see if she could increase the Norfolk’s growing range beyond warm, coastal climates to help prevent its extinction. The only place on the planet this particular variety of tree grows is on the Holmes estate.”

 

“So Mycroft didn’t just have Anthea have a tree delivered?”

 

“It would appear not. Culling trees on the estate is an involved process in which Mummy is still the ultimate authority. Not even Mycroft could get away with sending one of his minions to remove one without Mummy’s approval.”

 

John took another, closer look at the still-bare tree in front of him, considering its history and mentally binning the ragtag box of ornaments at his feet.

 

“We’re going to need better ornaments,” he said.

 

Sherlock snorted his disdain.

 

“It’s a tree, John. It’s not the Crown Jewels. I’m not sure why people insist on all this holiday frivolity anyway. But, if you must have frivolity, don’t feel as if you have to buy ornaments from Harrods.”

 

“My bank account agrees, but I do think a special tree needs special decorations,” John said, reaching into a nearby box for a strand of fairy lights. “I’ll have to think about it.”

 

John thought he heard a mumbled “tedious” before Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom.

 

∞ ∞ ∞

 

Ruffling both hands through his hair as he padded up the hall, it was a full 26 hours before Sherlock truly reappeared, having ventured out of his room earlier only to use the loo and to spurn John’s offer of dinner the night before and breakfast that day. So it was something of a shock when he stumbled out of his mind palace and his room to find the sitting room had been … transformed.

 

The mantel was lined with swags of greenery, the skull wearing a collar of fairy lights beneath its mandible and a sprig of holly above one parietal bone. A large clear-glass jug filled with round red ornaments — obviously Mrs. Hudson’s doing — sat to one side of the hearth. The desk had been cleared of papers and John’s mug, making room next to John’s laptop for still more greenery.

 

The usual throw across the back of John’s chair had been traded for a red and green plaid knit blanket, and a deep green throw — shot through with subtle threads of gold, silver and red — had been added to Sherlock’s chair. Even Smiley had been given a red bow tie — Sherlock could imagine John grinning like an idiot — albeit a charming idiot — and giggling through a “Bow ties are cool!” as he carefully tacked it to the wall.

 

Sherlock, a slightly bemused smile curling the corners of his mouth, was still studying the room’s finer details when John walked in from outside, peeling off his own coat and scarf to reveal a dark blue jumper sporting a snowflakes-and-Daleks design. John seemed to have an endless supply of Christmas jumpers.

 

“Oh, you’re up. I was hoping I’d finish before you appeared, so you could get the whole effect at once,” John said, giving Sherlock a grin and rocking a bit on the balls of his feet. “But, what do you think?”

 

“It looks as if Mrs. Hudson allowed a troupe of rabid elves into our flat,” Sherlock said. “Are you trying to save all of society from the Christmas madness by trapping it within these walls?”

 

John’s grin faltered and he reached toward the blanket on his chair as if to remove it.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ll, I’ll get rid of it.”

 

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “It’s … fine. It’s all fine. I just wasn’t … expecting it.”

 

“You’re sure?” John asked, his hand stopping where it had landed on the back of his chair, the texture of the blanket soothing against his fingertips. “Because I don’t mind. I just thought …”

 

“I said it’s fine, John,” Sherlock said. “Now stop dithering.”

 

John looked as if he were about to say more before turning and retrieving the bag he’d dropped by the door on his way in.

 

“Does that mean I can go ahead and hang these, then?” he asked, reaching into the bag and pulling out two Christmas stockings. One was a cabled hand-knit affair that looked as if it were a close relative to one of John’s favorite jumpers. The other was a rich pewter color with an anatomical depiction of a skull in the center. Swirls of red and silver danced in a not-quite-blood-splatter pattern around the edges.

 

Sherlock took the second stocking, staring at it for a long moment before raising his eyes to blink at John.

 

“I had a feeling you’d be overwhelmed by too much Christmas, at least the elves and candy canes variety,” John said, a shy smile starting to return to his lips. “I thought maybe a bit of counter-programming was in order.”

 

“I don’t know what to say,” Sherlock said slowly. “I, thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” John replied, a mischievous grin taking over for the shy smile. “I also swung by New Scotland Yard to pick up the garland for the tree.”

 

Sherlock, who had diverted his eyes back to the stocking in his hands, jerked his head up again at that comment just in time to avoid being hit by the thing John lobbed his direction. He caught it instinctively and looked down.

 

Nestled atop his skull-and-blood-splatter stocking was a large roll of blue and white crime-scene tape.

 

“If our tree’s as hard to come by as you say, then I figure our having it might just be a crime,” John said. “And we all know how you like those!”

 

Sherlock just stood there, dazed. He felt as if he had just been steamrollered by Christmas — and John — and, strangely, he didn’t mind a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which wildlife — and carols — abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [mylittlecornerofsherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock) for beta-ing Chapter 2.
> 
> By the way, I posted this in a huge rush before opening presents Christmas morning. If you see any errors, please feel free to let me know, either in the comments or on my Tumblr at batik96.tumblr.com. Merry Christmas!

Despite Christmas being just days away, the temperature in the park was relatively mild. Amid that, the sunshine and their winter wear, Sherlock and John weren’t uncomfortable as they sat on the park bench. Still, John nursed a paper cup of tea and Sherlock had a matching cup of coffee, both of them having decided their respective beverages were safer options than the cloudy hot water the vendor down the path had been trying to pass off as cocoa.

 

“Why are we watching the duck pond again?” John queried before taking a cautious sip of his tea.

 

“Because geese have rudimentary digestive systems.”

 

“OK. I’m not even going to pretend I follow that,” John said, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

 

“The suspect in the jewelry store robbery earlier today was seen feeding the ducks, but when Lestrade’s men questioned him, they found nothing for which they could charge him. They just weren’t looking in the right place.”

 

“The ducks?”

 

“Technically, the geese. Most likely one of the larger birds with distinct markings. Easier to pick out of a crowd later.”

 

“And he would want to do that, why?” John looked at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was silent as he returned John’s gaze.

 

“Oh,” John said, expression practically mirroring the one Sherlock got when he solved a case. “He fed the missing ring to one of the geese.”

 

“Very good, John. You’re getting better at this,” Sherlock’s tone was only mildly condescending, which John knew meant his words were sincere, even if they were closer to the outside edge of an actual compliment than they were to full-fledged praise.

 

“But why would he come back this soon? Wouldn’t he be worried that the police would still be hanging around?”

 

“He has little choice,” Sherlock said, amusement curling at the corners of his mouth. “If he doesn’t come back to steal the goose soon, he’ll be left to pick through the waste of the two dozen waterfowl that live here, looking for …”

 

“ … a needle in a haystack,” John interjected.

 

“Not exactly hay, no, but you obviously get the idea.”

 

“Yeah, I do,” John said, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the thought. He wasn’t sure any piece of jewelry was worth that, no matter how valuable the stone was, and decided a change of subject would be good. They could keep an eye out for a thief while discussing more pleasant topics — or none at all.

 

The pair sat silently for a few minutes, eyes drifting from the nearby birds to the other people enjoying the weather with a visit to the park. John picked up the tune of a Christmas carol that was being broadcast through the park via speakers discreetly tucked away in the foliage.

 

“Don’t.” The single word from Sherlock broke the silence between them.

 

“Don’t what?” John asked. “I wasn’t doing anything.” 

 

“You were about to start humming.”

 

“I was not.”

 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John, silently daring him to question his deduction before picking up the conversation as if the tiny dispute had been resolved in his favor.

 

“... And while you ordinarily have a pleasant enough voice, Christmas carols — especially this one — do no one any favors. This song sounds as if chipmunks are singing it.”

 

“First, the entire point of Christmas carols is that they’re generally easy enough for everyone to sing,” John said. “And, second, this song is supposed to sound as if it’s being sung by chipmunks — Alvin and the Chipmunks.”

 

“Chipmunks don’t sing.”

 

“These do.” John sighed and took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before diving back into the verbal fray. “Look, a lot of Christmas carols are intended to be fun for kids. They’re not meant to make sense. They’re just fun.”

 

“And that would explain that hippopotamus song?”

 

“Yes. I think most people would concede that wanting a hippopotamus is a bit much, but you’re supposed to be able to ask Santa for anything,” John said. “Why not ask him for a hippo?

 

“And not all carols are silly. Surely you’ve played some of the more classical ones on your violin, haven’t you?”

 

“Yes. Good music is good music, regardless of the season or the sentiment attached,” Sherlock said.

 

“And bad music is bad music, regardless of the season,” John said. “That reindeer song, for one.”

 

“Are you saying you don’t like ‘Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer’? I applaud your taste, but admit it is unexpected.”

 

“No, you git. Everyone likes Rudolph. It’s that American song. ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’” John said the title with a shudder, as if merely speaking the words would make the lyrics stick in his brain for the rest of the holiday season. “Just, why?”

 

“But that’s a brilliant song!”

 

John looked at Sherlock as if the man had just sprouted a second head, this one perhaps covered in ginger curls and sideburns.

 

“You have to be joking,” John said. “That’s the worst Christmas carol ever.”

 

“No, John. It’s brilliant,” Sherlock said, uncustomary glee accompanying a wicked grin. “What if it wasn’t an accident?”

 

John stared, trying to decide if Sherlock was serious or joking. He was saved from having to decide how to respond when Sherlock suddenly went from his faux casual stakeout mode to full alert.

 

“There he is, John. Come on.”

 

And they were off on a wild goose chase — this one involving both their thief and an actual wild goose.

 

***

 

“Are you buying a separate gift for Mrs. Hudson or should I just sign your name to the tag on this?” John asked, motioning to the package in front of him on the coffee table.

 

“Add my name,” Sherlock said, not raising his head from where he was absorbed in tuning his violin. “It’s a pedestrian enough gift that she’ll know you bought it, but I doubt she expects any less. She knows I avoid the shops unless a body’s been found between housewares and juniors.”

 

Another piece of sello on the end and some ribbon and John would be finished wrapping Mrs. Hudson’s gift. He glanced at the stack to his left and straightened, working a kink out of his shoulder and taking a deep breath before continuing with his task.

 

“You could give her something that didn’t require a trip to the shops … a promise not to create a sibling for Smiley or a coupon good for clearing the fridge of one over-ripe experiment,” John suggested, glancing up in time to see Sherlock’s moue of distaste.

 

“Dull.”

 

“But much appreciated,” John pointed out affably. “The point of gifts is to show those you care about that you do care. That you’ve been paying attention.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson knows I always pay attention, so … pointless,” Sherlock said, carefully wiping at his violin as if removing a smudge that John couldn’t be sure was even real. 

 

Sherlock and John had returned from the stakeout just long enough ago that John had had time to make tea, sip it while his fingers thawed — even mild December temps got chilly after a few hours — and then pull out some of the presents he had purchased so far. There were now wrapped boxes for Greg, Mike and Sarah sitting off to the side of the couch. He still had to find a gift for Harry, but she had proved harder to buy for than Sarah — and finding the perfect gift, or even just an acceptable one, for your boss/friend/ex-girlfriend was no small feat.

 

Finding a present for Sherlock was proving to be its own challenge, not because John couldn’t figure out what to get for his flatmate — who really did have just about everything he needed and quite a bit of what he wanted — but because John had found himself associating all sorts of gift options, even the mundane, with Sherlock.

 

Fruit of the month club? Sure. If John were lucky, Sherlock would eat some of the fruit. If not, he’d put the dozen perfect pears the company promised to send in January to use in an experiment.

 

Magazine subscription? Sure. Sherlock would either actually find an interesting article to fill a few minutes of his time or, more likely, he’d find a way to study ink smudge and its effect on crime rates at newsstands in the city. If all else failed, perhaps they could convince Greg to let them borrow the shooting range at the Yard and Sherlock could use a stack of the most offensive periodicals as target practice instead of taking his boredom out on the flat.

 

Admitting it was nowhere near logical, if adamantly not admitting to anything else, John even considered buying Sherlock a tie. Sherlock — who didn’t wear ties. And whose (gorgeous) neck would be somewhat shrouded if he were to fully button his shirt to add a tie. Criminal.

 

“John.”

 

Sherlock’s voice broke through John’s reverie and John shook his head a bit to clear it as he went back to wrapping, decidedly not thinking about Sherlock wearing a tie at a crime scene — just to keep others from oggling that creamy expanse of throat. And most definitely not thinking about their return home, when John might remove the tie, undo buttons, lick at smooth clavicles.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. You were starting to drift.”

 

“Sorry, just, uh, thinking about … what Christmas shopping I have to finish.”

 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow John’s direction, as if to challenge that statement, but he apparently decided to let it slide, positioned his violin and began playing as John gratefully returned to his wrapping. 

 

The carol was beautiful, a continent — if not a planet — removed from the pop tunes that had been piped through the park during their stakeout. Sherlock didn’t practice any particular religion and more than once had voiced his disdain at people’s belief in “superstition.” But he now played a hymn, letting his instrument’s rich tones warm the room as he coaxed forth a delicate note here, an ethereal hum there.

 

John had finished wrapping Mrs. Hudson’s gift and set it aside, leaning back into the couch and letting the music wash over him. Sherlock led the hymn seamlessly into a classical piece that John assumed was somehow considered Christmas-y, even if it didn’t have lyrics to specifically support the notion.

 

The song soon changed again, evolving into a blend of something classical and something just familiar enough that John felt he should recognize it. But the busy day, the warmth of the fire and the music combined to lull John toward sleep, his brain ceding his attempt to name Sherlock’s latest tune.

 

By this time, Sherlock had left his chair and was standing at the window, looking down at Baker Street’s traffic as he played. 

 

John managed one last look at the graceful line of Sherlock’s back, affection and appreciation causing him to release a bit of a sigh as his eyes drifted shut of their own accord.

 

In that last moment as he faded, recognition sparked lazily in a corner of John’s mind and supplied the lyrics that had been eluding him, drawing them from his lips in a slurred but sincere — if mostly incoherent — whisper.

 

“All I want for Christmas, is you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The notes for this chapter threaten to be longer than the chapter itself, but here goes:
> 
> When Snog and I were discussing which Christmas carols our guys would most and least like, we put a call out on Tumblr for suggestions. I initially said I would contend that "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" would be Sherlock's least favorite, except that I prefer to think Sherlock had never heard of the song. The first response to our question torpedoed that idea thoroughly, when [professorfangirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lizeckhart/pseuds/professorfangirl) not only came up with a brilliant reason but a [brilliant gif](http://professorfangirl.tumblr.com/post/69229063563/crowdsourcing-sherlocks-least-favorite-christmas%0A) to accompany it.  
> Thanks for the hippopotamus and chipmunk tunes goes to [canolacrush](http://archiveofourown.org/users/canolacrush).  
> It was pointed out by [singelisilverslippers](http://singelisilverslippers.tumblr.com/) that there's actually a carol, "The St. Stephen's Day Murders," about murder(s).  
> And [mid0nz](http://mid0nz.tumblr.com/) pointed to "The Coventry Carol" as Sherlock's least favorite after the Bond Air debacle and "Good King Wenceslas" as his favorite, because he took down Mrs. Wenceslas in "The Great Game."
> 
> As for the tunes Sherlock plays on his violin, I looked to [David Garrett](http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=david+garrett+christmas+music&sm=1) for inspiration.
> 
> And, yes. Yes I did Google research the digestive system of geese. Why do you ask?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which biscuits are baked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to [SweetLateJuliet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetLateJuliet/pseuds/SweetLateJuliet) for beta-ing this chapter!

John had been baking for a good part of the morning. There was no case on, he wasn’t scheduled at the clinic and Sherlock had removed himself to Barts to torment Molly in the guise of checking out a fresh corpse that had been donated to the medical school.

 

It seemed to John to be the perfect opportunity to bake without Sherlock’s running snarky commentary. It’s not as if the great git didn’t eat biscuits, John thought. In fact, there were days when chocolate-dipped digestives were the only solid sustenance John managed to get him to eat. But he was pretty sure holiday baking would earn another “tedious” from his flatmate, so he thought he’d do what he could while the day was calm.

 

By the time Sherlock returned home around lunchtime with sandwiches from the cafe next door, John had filled the kitchen table — safely cleared of experiments and thoroughly disinfected — with jammie dodgers (both strawberry and plum) and sugar biscuits in various holiday shapes. He had a bowl of icing waiting under a damp cloth to fulfill its destiny, and shakers of decorating sugar in a rainbow of colours rested nearby.

 

“I see the rabid elves have been back,” Sherlock said, his sardonic tone belied by a slight grin as he deposited the takeaway bag on a bare corner of the table, shoved his gloves in his coat pockets and shed his Belstaff.

 

“I’ll have you know rabid elves are good bakers,” John retorted, his defensive tone undercut by a grin to match Sherlock’s. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and ice some of the sugar biscuits?”

 

“Maybe I will,” Sherlock said, opening the takeaway and leaving both sandwiches on a single paper wrapper, a scattering of crisps between them and a few napkins to one side. “Lunch.”

 

“Thanks,” John replied, glancing over his shoulder as he continued rolling out gingerbread biscuit dough. “I’ll get it in a bit. My hands are a bit of a mess right now.”

 

A moment later John found half of a roasted veggie and brie wrap hovering at mouth level in front of him, Sherlock holding the back end of it. He raised surprised and questioning eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

 

“We can’t have you skipping lunch,” Sherlock said. “That’s how those nasty rumours about Santa as a slave labourer get started.”

 

John sputtered with laughter, thankful he hadn’t yet taken a bite of the offered sandwich. He was gratified to hear Sherlock’s rich baritone rumble joining in. He started to wipe a tear from one eye before realising his hands were covered in flour and opting instead to wipe his face against a raised shoulder clad in a soft green jumper. Once both of them had ceased giggling to a level that reduced the sandwich’s threat as a choking hazard, John took a larger bite than was technically polite, nodded his thanks to Sherlock and returned to his baking.

 

The pair worked mostly silently for a while after that, John cutting gingerbread-people shapes from the firm, dark slab of dough in front of him and Sherlock doing _something_ when he wasn’t feeding John.

 

After John had emptied all but the last tray of biscuits onto cooling racks and put the last tray in the oven, he washed his hands and turned around, finally pulling his focus away from the kitchen worktop and turning it to where Sherlock sat at the table.

 

For the second time in the past two hours, John found himself floored. Sherlock had decorated a handful of snowflake-shaped biscuits with multiple shades of blue and white icing. A few others didn’t look particularly Christmas-y but were identically decorated in slashes and swirls of color that looked like modern art worth millions of pounds.

 

Sherlock, for his part, didn’t seem to have noticed that John had noticed, intent as he was on decorating an otherwise plain, round biscuit with grains of decorating sugar in an elaborate pattern of snowflakes and holly. The detail, particularly considering the biscuit’s standard size, was stunning.

 

“That’s … amazing,” John said, drawing closer to the table to get a better view. “How’d you learn to do that?”

 

“There was a case, before I met you,” Sherlock said, not pulling his concentration from his handiwork. “Tibetan monks were creating mandalas in various public places around London. They were supposed to remain on display for a few days before the monks destroyed them as part of the symbolism of the process, but their work kept being vandalized, destroyed before they had a chance to finish it. It was creating diplomatic issues for Mycroft at a time when I owed him a favour.

 

“In the process of solving the case, I observed the monks’ technique. The decorating sugar isn’t as fine a grain as mandala sand, but it’s sufficient for something that will be eaten shortly.”

 

“I’m glad you’re helping — and that you’re not bored,” John said. “I was just going to use a knife to spread some icing on the biscuits and sprinkle sugar on top. These are works of art. … Even if those with the splashes of color look more like they belong in the Tate Modern than on a plate left out for Santa.”

 

“I’ll have you know those are among the most Christmas-y of the bunch,” Sherlock said, mock indignantly.

 

“OK, explain,” John said, pointing to a biscuit sporting a hexagonal design. “I doubt I’ll figure this one out, so just call me an idiot now and cut to the chase.”

 

“It’s the molecular structure for glucose,” Sherlock said. “Isn’t sugar a key ingredient of Christmas frivolity?”

 

“They look like they’re holding hands,” John giggled, the sound coming out as a delicate snort.

 

“Sweet, John,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as much as he could without taking them off of the sugary masterpiece in front of him.

 

“Did you just … make … a really bad pun? About sugar? And science? And Christmas?” John asked, the words coming out in broken spurts as his giggle turned into a full-fledged cackle of glee.

 

“And that,” Sherlock said, pointedly ignoring John’s cackle in favour of pointing to one of the biscuits iced in slashes of color, “is what eggnog looks like when it’s been crystallized and placed under a microscope.”

 

It took a moment for John to regain control of his laughter and pause to look more closely at the Tate Modern biscuits. The fact that there was more than one with the same design made it clear that this was no mere accidental splash of colouring that happened to turn out looking nice.

 

“I know you don’t like it when people repeat themselves, but I also know you never get tired of hearing this,” John said. “So, that’s amazing.”

 

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge the compliment outright but John caught a pleased grin tugging at the corners of his lips. The timer went off on the last tray of gingerbread biscuits and John turned his attention back to the stove.

 

This was the special tray he had made just for Sherlock and he was glad the biscuit decorating was proving to be a thorough distraction as he waited for them to cool enough that he could remove them to a rack to finish the process. He then spent a few more minutes tidying the kitchen — placing now-dirty biscuit cutters in the sink and wiping down the worktop.

 

When the last of the biscuits had cooled sufficiently, John turned his attention back to Sherlock, who was just putting the finishing touches on a sugary holly berry near the centre of a mandala biscuit.

 

“I was afraid you’d be bored,” he said, carrying the now-cooled rack of baked goods to the table. “So I baked you a case.”

 

With that, John picked up a single biscuit and held it out for Sherlock. That the gingerbread boy was clearly missing its head and both hands was plain to see.

 

“Whodunnit, Sherlock?” John asked. “Was it Peter Peter Pumpkin-eater in the kitchen with a melon baller, or was it Jack-be-Nimble in the great room with a candlestick?”

 

Sherlock took just a moment to cast his gaze on the platter of biscuits — all gingerbread people missing one body part or another — before turning glowing eyes on John.

 

“I would say it was Peter Piper in the conservatory with a vial of deadly capsaicin, but that would only account for their deaths, not the subsequent dismemberments,” Sherlock intoned seriously before giving in to his own fit of giggles. “It’s more likely that it was Mary Mary in the garden with a cockleshell. Who puts cockleshells in their garden anyway?”

 

“Well, she was quite contrary,” John chimed in, his giggles taking hold again.

 

It was a few minutes before either man was calm enough to start decorating biscuits again, but the afternoon soon continued in the manner that it had begun — companionable silences punctuated by laughter and conversation as John and Sherlock iced biscuits.

 

By the time they were done, John had a few dozen biscuits — bells, angels, Christmas trees — decorated and ready to share with Mrs. Hudson, Harry and Greg, and Sherlock had turned the gingerbread corpses into a crime scene befitting his genius. He had even used some of the biscuits that still had all their body parts to create baked-good versions of himself, John and Lestrade to round out the scene.

 

“I guess we’re about done here,” John said finally, when most of the biscuits had been decorated. “I need to use the loo, then I’ll finish cleaning up if you’ll finish decorating those last two gingerbread men.”

 

When John returned to the kitchen, it was to find the near-empty icing bowls stacked to one side of the sink and the last two biscuits decorated and sitting in the middle of the table. They were duplicates of the Sherlock and John biscuits already part of the gingerbread crime scene.

 

“Sherlock?” John called, trying to get his decorator extraordinaire back to the kitchen from whatever part of the flat he had vanished. “Why did we need more ‘us’ biscuits? We’re already at the crime scene.”

 

Sherlock popped his head around the kitchen door, a mischievous gleam in his eye and a evil grin playing at his lips.

 

“Maybe I just want an excuse to eat you, John.” 

 

With those words and a wink that John could only define as delicious, Sherlock was gone again. John heard the front door clicking behind his flatmate before John had a chance to let the words sink in, let alone consider whether Sherlock even realised the not-at-all-subtle sexual innuendo in his parting line.

 

The possibility for something John had not dared to let himself consider left him hungry, his mouth watering for so much more than a jammie dodger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where to start with the links?
> 
> First, the [Speedy's wraps](http://sherlocknyc.tumblr.com/speedyscafe) Sherlock and John are eating are, indeed, their wraps. This link on the SherlockNYC Tumblr has a lovely interview with the Speedy's people.
> 
> As far as I know, mandala biscuits do not exist, and authentic mandalas with snowflakes and holly probably don't either. But [mandalas](https://www.google.com/#q=mandala+images) are both real and breathtaking. Sherlock's other biscuits may not exist, either, but that doesn't mean they couldn't: If you go [here](http://food.oregonstate.edu/learn/sugar.html) and scroll down quite a bit, you'll eventually run into a simple line drawing of what, in my fluff-overloaded brain, looks like two hexagons holding hands. It is glucose.  
> Other options:  
> [Snow](http://www.cracked.com/article_20386_8-ordinary-things-that-look-insanely-cool-under-microscope.html) (scroll down again) and [eggnog](http://micro.magnet.fsu.edu/cocktails/pages/eggnog.html). I also like [this one](http://bevshots.com/all/sex-on-the-beach.html), but I couldn't quite figure out how to introduce the "Sex on the Beach" drink into the Christmas biscuit-decorating conversation.  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then there were ornaments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 10th day of Christmas, Snog (and all)! My goal remains to wrap this up by the 12th day of Christmas — otherwise known as Jan. 6, Epiphany and Sherlock's birthday. That may not happen, but I will do my best not to let the fluff linger too long!
> 
> Thanks to [SweetLateJuliet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetLateJuliet/pseuds/SweetLateJuliet), who once again assumed beta duties on a rush-rush basis and was amazing! 
> 
> Peace!

The tree had been up for several days — the first draped only in white fairy lights, the second further adorned by a garland of crime-scene tape. But a case and the need for new ornaments had thwarted John’s attempts to finish the decorating on the third day, and his efforts to encourage Sherlock’s participation in picking ornaments had shown no signs of working. 

 

With Christmas drawing ever nearer, John figured something needed to be done if the tree — a near-perfect specimen of a rare hybrid from the Holmes estate — was not to be wasted. He went out earlier to shop and, thanks to a seasonal kiosk on the high street, managed to find several decorations that he thought might do justice to the tree and the unique Christmas he was hoping to achieve for Sherlock.

 

To start, John carefully peeled the crime scene tape from the tree and removed the white lights, replacing them with strands of red and blue bulbs to better mimic the lights of a police car. He followed that by just as carefully replacing their makeshift garland. Small red and blue glass orbs — along with matt-silver loops that, hung in pairs, loosely resembled handcuffs — followed.

 

Next came a set of skull-shaped ornaments — each pierced at the temples by a candy cane.

 

John had just finished with the last of the sets and was about to begin hanging a few individual ornaments when Sherlock arrived home from his trip to the Yard.

 

“Hi! Lestrade get what he needed?” John greeted Sherlock as he placed a miniature microscope.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, unwrapping the scarf from his neck. “Dull, as always. The goose did its part in sealing the conviction and has been returned to the park. The jewelry has been cleaned —”

 

“The Yard actually cleaned it?”

 

“Yes, Anderson didn’t muck it up, for once,” Sherlock said, amusement tingeing his voice.

 

“Anderson? Anderson had to clean the ring? That’s brilliant,” John choked out between giggles.

 

“Yes, they have to keep it for evidence at trial,” Sherlock said. “Hence, Anderson. The store owner’s talking about raising the price on the ring when it’s returned to him, because now it has ‘history’.”

 

“They do say crime pays,” John said.

 

Sherlock finished shedding his outerwear and turned his attention to the tree just as John was hanging a small resin ornament.

 

“A dog, John?”

 

Sherlock’s words came from directly behind John, and John stilled his hand for a moment before continuing to loop the ornament’s hook on a tree branch front and center near the top of the tree.

 

Sherlock didn’t pause in his rapid-fire assessment, even as he took a step back from John to give the tree a sweeping inspection.

 

“A dog in an earhat? Why is the dog wearing an earhat? And why is there a yellow bird with the dog? Well, the wings indicate bird. But they’re too short for flight, even if the bird’s head weren’t impossibly large. For God’s sake, his nose is bigger than the whole rest of his body. And it _is_ a nose, not a beak. He shouldn’t even be able to stand upright. Flight is out of the question.”

 

“The dog’s name is Snoopy, and the bird is Woodstock,” John broke into Sherlock’s commentary. “And _you_ popularised the _earhat_ look. People are looking to profit from it. I suppose you could try to sue — or stick Mycroft on the manufacturers — but ignoring it might make it go away faster. Meanwhile, I like them. Snoopy in an earhat reminds me of you. … Just think of me as your Woodstock.”

 

“Why would I do that? You are my _John_. Why would I want a ridiculously flight-challenged bird when I have you?”

 

The words stilled John’s hand again and he glanced up, cautiously hopeful as he looked for — something — in Sherlock’s expression. But Sherlock’s face was unreadable as he continued talking even as he reached for the bag he’d deposited on the table on his way in.

 

“I was not oblivious to your hints about ornaments,” Sherlock said, changing the topic. “They were, after all, broad enough to drive a bus through.”

 

“I don’t think it counts as a _hint_ when I say, ‘you could pick out some ornaments,’” John said, fond exasperation evident in his clipped words. “More like a suggestion. An obvious one designed to give you no chance of missing it.”

 

“And I didn’t,” Sherlock said, the mock indignance of his first few words shifting to triumph as he pulled from the bag a set of miniature jumpers in various designs. “It just took time to find what I wanted. I have now.”

 

“Jumpers?” 

 

“Problem?”

 

“No, no problem,” John said. “I like jumpers.”

 

“I know.”

 

Sherlock scattered the small wool ornaments around the tree, then reached back in his bag and pulled out what looked like little more than a ball of twigs.

 

“And what is that, exactly?” John asked, motioning the miniature Strad in his hand toward the ornament in Sherlock’s.

 

“It’s a hedgehog,” Sherlock said, placing the decoration on the tree not far from Snoopy and Woodstock. “It reminded me of you.”

 

“A hedgehog made out of twigs reminded you of me,” John echoed.

 

“Yes, it’s prickly, but … cute.”

 

“Fuck you.” John’s words were clipped and concise, if not actually angry.

 

“If you’d like ...”

 

“What?” John knew where those three simple words had taken him, but he wasn’t sure if it was a solo trip or if he had company.

 

“If you’d like, we can take it down.”

 

“Oh. Uh, no. It’s fine.” John turned back to the tree, hoping to hide the flush of his cheeks — or at least pass it off as the glow of the tree’s red bulbs. He told himself to get a grip; Sherlock had been clear from the beginning about his feelings on relationships, and no degree of John wishing the situation were different would change that.

 

No, regardless of Sherlock’s choice of words of late, John would just need to be more careful about where he let his mind wander and how obviously he wore his emotions on his sleeve.

 

Though it was hard to keep things casual when you were decorating an amazing tree that might as well be festooned with a giant banner spelling out “Love Letter to Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ornaments mentioned have their real-life counterparts:  
> [the skull-and-candy-cane ornament](http://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/169070920/candy-cane-skull-ornament?ref=sr_gallery_4&sref=sr_a5a33bdb6bff17b1fc7bfd13e85e1a7a1ca5627b647a11b081cdc771c1c9c921_1385140624_14874342_skull_ornament&ga_includes%5B%5D=tags&ga_search_query=skull+ornament&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery)  
> [Snoopy and Woodstock](http://www.amazon.com/Hallmark-Keepsake-Ornament-Detective-QX6564/dp/B000YE0HLY)  
> [I didn't mention this one, but it's on the tree.](http://www.cafepress.com/+investigating_pop_art_oval_ornament,278950567)  
> There are two violin ornaments. [This one](http://www.amazon.com/String-Miniature-Hanging-Holiday-Ornament/dp/B004OZNHWK/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1388895355&sr=8-2&keywords=christmas+ornament+violin) and [this one.](http://www.zazzle.com/the_hellier_violin_made_by_antonio_stradivarius_c_ornament-175622870049873943)
> 
> The hedgehog and jumpers exist, too, but I posted them [on my Tumblr](http://batik96.tumblr.com/), because I seem incapable of getting the photos to imbed without taking over the page.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who listened to me swear, during the past year, that I had every intention of finishing this — and didn't once voice their suspicions that it had been abandoned like yesterday's wrapping paper. Special thanks to [PipMer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer) for helping me find my way back to it. And to Woodstock. For a cartoon bird with a ridiculously improbable nose, he's an excellent conductor of fic!
> 
> Thanks also to [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/pseuds/snogandagrope), for giving me the idea for this fic — and helping feed it — more than a year ago. I hope the ending is worth the wait, Snog!

“The Case of the Wild Goose Chase” had wrapped up a few days before Christmas and John had anticipated a relaxing holiday — well, as relaxing as a holiday could be when the risk of Sherlock being bored was always a possibility.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the spate of illness that was working its way through the Yard, leading Greg to beg them for their help on cases that wouldn’t have gotten Sherlock out of their flat if Greg hadn’t promised him two weeks of unlimited access to the Yard’s databases, no hacking into the system needed.

Even the 12th day of Christmas had come and gone by the time Sherlock and John had temporarily finished running down criminals, eaten a real meal and made up for some of the sleep they had missed.

“The tree still looks amazing,” John said, handing Sherlock a mug of mulled wine before settling into his chair. “Especially for something that should have been binned or recycled days ago.”

“It’s a hardy variety,” Sherlock said. “And there’s no need to worry about getting rid of it. It’s only still here because Mycroft knows we’ve been busy. Once we’ve finished with it, we’ll come home one day to find the ornaments neatly boxed up and the tree gone.”

“What …” John paused in taking a tentative sip of his drink to dart a glance between Sherlock and the tree. “Wait, don’t tell me. It’s such a rare variety that your mother doesn’t trust the dustmen to dispose of it instead of selling it to corporate spies for the Christmas tree industry. Mycroft backs her up, in the name of national security.” 

“Something like that, yes,” Sherlock drawled.

“Seriously?” John’s voice pitched a bit higher with his disbelief. “I was joking.”

“Mummy doesn’t joke about her trees,” Sherlock said, taking a sip from his mug.

“Right,” John said carefully, giving the tree another once-over to appreciate both its continued green branches and the decorating job he and Sherlock had managed between them. “So, um, before Greg calls again, I suppose I could give you your gift while we actually have a few minutes.”

“You didn’t have to …” Sherlock began.

“Oh, don’t start,” John said, standing and making his way to where a relatively neatly wrapped box rested under the tree. “You’re my best friend. Of course I got you a gift. Here. Just don’t tell me what it is before you’ve even opened it.”

“You’re the one with the danger kink,” Sherlock protested as John stopped in front of his chair and handed over the gift before returning to his own. “I learned the last time that deducing gifts from you is not safe. Even if I did know what is in this box, I would keep my mouth shut. But you can consider it a bonus gift that I’ve temporarily blocked my super powers. I won’t know until I get the box open.”

Blocking his deducing skills that long proved not to be much of a test, considering that Sherlock easily found a seam, poked a neatly manicured nail under the sello and, with a deft flick of a wrist had the small cardboard container divested of its wrapping in seconds. Another flick and the box’s lid joined the shredded paper on the floor by his chair.

Sherlock looked down at the box, confusion oh-so-briefly flitting across his features before he raised his eyes to meet John’s.

“Scarves?”

“Well, you seem to like your usual one, so I thought you might like having one for every season,” John said. “You know, different fabric weights for different temperatures. You never have to risk your neck getting chilled again!”

John tried to make light of his gift, but shrewd grey eyes told him he wasn’t going to get off that easily.

“Scarves also are much better than neckties at hiding evidence,” Sherlock said, his gaze lightening to a crystalline sky blue as a lopsided smile quirked into place. “So much better than neckties, especially when the marks are above the collar.”

“What …?” John stammered, feeling his face flush with heat. “No, no, no. I just thought you’d like a …”

“Oh, I do, John,” Sherlock said, setting the box aside, standing and taking a prowling step toward John, all in one sleek, feline move that made John empathize with any rabbit that had ever drawn the attention of a big cat.

“Before you start to hyperventilate, you should open my gift,” Sherlock said, gracefully swooping into John’s personal space and making a wrapped box appear as if by magic from the space between his chair and the side table.

Handing off the elegantly wrapped — and rather large — gift box, Sherlock took a step back, giving John room to maneuver the box in his lap. It seemed a shame to destroy the careful wrapping, but an impatient huff from Sherlock hastened his hesitant hand and he soon was staring at a freshly peeled box sporting the name of an upscale high street shop.

The lid slid off easily and John found himself face-to-face with a shockingly yellow jumper. He was surprised enough that Sherlock had bothered to get him a jumper — he seemed generally opposed to them —but the color was startling in its own right. Not a bad shade of yellow, but not particularly a color he associated with Sherlock’s refined fashion sense and not a color John really had in his wardrobe.

John glanced at Sherlock, waiting just a moment too long to mask his surprise before he cut his gaze back to the box.

“Thank you, Sher …”

His attempt at politeness — he did appreciate the thought, even if he found the execution confusing — was abruptly cut off.

“You see, but do not observe, John.”

It wasn’t the first time John had heard those words from Sherlock, but it lacked some of its usual disdain, instead tending more toward fond amusement. So John lifted the jumper from the box and let the fabric’s folds fall free, looking more closely as he noticed a slightly raised design in the knitting.

What he finally observed when he looked carefully was a bird’s face. Well, a cartoon bird’s face. With a more prominent nose than was realistically viable.

“You … you got me Woodstock?” John lowered the sweater and looked again to Sherlock, hoping the slightly breathless quality of his words would go unnoticed.

“Yes, well. I still don’t see why anyone would need that ridiculous bird when they could have you. But you seemed fond of it. When I saw the jumper …”

John was flabbergasted by the sentiment in Sherlock’s gift and was trying to work a stunned “thank you” past his lips when Sherlock prodded him again.

“There’s more, John. Look again.”

John shook himself out of his daze, folded the jumper again — so Woodstock’s face remained clearly visible — and set it aside before turning his attention back to the box. Peeling back another layer of tissue paper, he saw yet another jumper, this one obviously in a price range more suited to Sherlock’s wardrobe than his own. It felt as if it would melt under his fingertips — had to be cashmere — as he ran a careful finger along the collar.

The heathered knit was a dark, smoky blue. It was rather plain, relying on quality yarn and craftsmanship rather than any sort of glitz. That’s not to say it was dull, though. A row of buttons graced the left shoulder and, as John pulled the jumper out and allowed it to unfold, he noticed raised bands of knitting at the elbows. Quite simply, it was the nicest jumper John had ever owned — not counting, of course, the one his gran knit him before he left for college.

This time, his manners didn’t fail him.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said. “It’s amazing. … I thought you hated my jumpers.” 

“Why do you think I bought you new ones?”

“Git.”

“There’s one more.”

“Oh.” John refolded the delft blue knit and set it aside atop the Woodstock jumper, the contrasting colors once again shocking his sensibilities just a bit. Then he returned his attention to the last layer of tissue paper. After the two vastly different jumpers he’d already unwrapped, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

Still, he definitely wasn’t prepared for the jumper that greeted him.

It was obviously a Christmas jumper — a Nordic design with snowflakes in a band around the chest and a pair of reindeer front and center. It was, as Christmas jumpers went, fairly typical — except the reindeer were clearly, um, rutting. On the front of the jumper. 

John laughed. Out loud.

“This would have been perfect for Greg’s Boxing Day ugly Christmas jumpers party — if it hadn’t been cancelled because of the caseload,” he said.

“Greg’s party — oh, right. Yes. Hideous. Would have won.”

Something about Sherlock’s tone drew John’s attention back to his flatmate. It wasn’t a long trip, because John’s attention never strayed far from the man, and he caught a glimpse of something — was that hurt? — before it disappeared behind an unreadable expression.

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, glancing between the jumper and its giver, connecting some mental dots as Sherlock retreated a bit closer to his own chair. “This isn’t your style and you seemed to indicate that your goal was to replace my ‘ugly’ jumpers. So what’s this one about, exactly? You sound as if Greg’s party was deleted as soon as he issued the invitation, so it’s not that.”

Sherlock seemed to brace himself, defensiveness evident in the lines of his shoulders as he lifted his chin.

“Like the Woodstock jumper and the Belstaff, that one reminded me of you,” he said, the look in his eyes defiant.

“Two reindeer fucking on a red jumper reminded you of me?” John stared at Sherlock for a moment, gaping a bit, before his brain kicked in and he returned Sherlock’s gaze with just as much defiance — and a slightly evil grin to boot.

Carefully setting aside the last jumper, John stood and slowly advanced toward Sherlock, who continued his equally slow retreat.

“Let me see what I can deduce from that,” he said, darting out his tongue to moisten his dry lips before pulling himself up to his full height.

“Red. Not really my color. At least, not bright Christmas red.”

“Not true,” Sherlock said, hurriedly finishing his thought as John looked to argue. “You have red pants.”

“How? How do you know about my red pants? You know, never mind. Beside the point right in this moment. I’ll clarify. I don’t often wear bright red jumpers or shirts.”

John took a step toward Sherlock

“So not the red. And reindeer. I’ve nothing against them, but I don’t think I’ve ever proclaimed an undying affection for Rudolph, either.”

Another step toward Sherlock, who had finally reached a point where his back was against a wall and he was unable to go farther without making it obvious that he was, indeed, in retreat.

“And the quality of the sweater. Well, let’s just say polyester really isn’t my style, regardless of how horrid you think my jumpers are. Which leaves … the fucking.”

And wasn’t the sudden appearance of that shade of red along Sherlock’s cheekbones just lovely? John thanked whatever deity had ensured that he was watching Sherlock closely as he voiced his deduction. Because he wouldn’t have wanted to miss seeing that color appear, and it crossed his mind to consider that he’d happily spend the rest of his life conducting A Study in Pink if it involved more of that.

“You’re telling me this jumper reminded you of me because of the fucking?”

“Not in so many words, no, I’m not telling you that,” Sherlock said. “But your deductions are not … inaccurate.”

“So the … the comment about wanting to eat me when we were decorating cookies. And the mention of how scarves hide evidence. And the ‘prickly-but-cute’ ornament and the Christmas carol … Not accidental?”

No, John,” Sherlock said, a bit of predatory gleam returning to his eyes as he met John’s newly observant eyes at close range.” All I want for Christmas really is you.”

John paused only a moment, letting his eyes roam over Sherlock’s face for any lingering hesitancy before closing the final gap between their bodies and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock gasped, whether from surprise (doubtful) or pleasure or merely the impact of what John realized later was probably best described as a pounce on his part. Whatever the reason, the point was that Sherlock’s lips parted and John wasted no time in deepening their first kiss.

It was several long minutes later before they truly came up for air. They had managed to make it away from the wall, only to sprawl across the sofa, legs tangled, fingers tucked under shirttails and wrapped around ribs. John knew where he wanted them to land next, and he was pretty sure Sherlock had the same destination in mind, but he had to be sure.

“So, are you just looking for a quick fuck — is this some kind of experiment?” he asked softly, trailing a finger down one of Sherlock’s cheekbones and across his now swollen lips. “Or do you want more?”

“I _was_ hoping you’d go deeper, John.”

“I intend to, love. But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“I want it all,” Sherlock replied, shyness warring with certainty as he met John’s gaze. “I want everything you’re willing to give me — and then some.”

“Good. As long as we’re on the same page,” John said, dipping his head for another lingering kiss. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”

∞ ∞ ∞

In the end, only one of the jumpers Sherlock gave John made it outside the walls of 221b. John looked amazing in the blue cashmere Belstaff by the glow of candlelight at Angelo’s — and out of it soon after they’d return home. Woodstock and the reindeer had a special place in John’s dresser drawer, cherished — if rarely worn.

The scarves John gave to Sherlock saw regular use — some of it actually involving keeping Sherlock’s neck warm. It’s not that they sought to hide their relationship — in fact, they made it pretty clear pretty quickly that things were new, different, better between them — but Sherlock found the Yarders’ lack of wit even more trying when their brains had been further short-circuited by the physical proof, so covering the love bites became a necessity. It was a bonus that Sherlock could read in John’s expression across a crime scene when John was thinking about what they had done to require a scarf or, better yet, what he intended to do once the case was resolved to ensure a scarf would be necessary at the next crime scene.

The best gift either of them ever got saw use for dozens of Christmases to come. They didn’t always have one of Mummy’s trees to decorate, but they had each other — in adoration and exasperation, boredom and danger, with cases and without. It never wore out, never grew old, and It was a gift neither was ever tempted to return.

Just shy of a year after they confessed their love and gave the gift of themselves to each other, Sherlock managed to duplicate for John — with some creative license — the gifts of the 12 days of Christmas. Except, instead of five gold rings and a partridge in a pear tree, there were two platinum bands and a promise of forever.

It was a promise both kept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's Belstaff sweater. [John's Belstaff sweater.](http://batik96.tumblr.com/private/image/107340948834/tumblr_nhrwogEJgy1rzx1h1) I took the liberty of having Sherlock buy it in blue instead of gray, to match John's eyes. The sleeves give it a vaguely military feel, I think, and the buttons allow for easy access, both things I think Sherlock would find appealing!
> 
> [John's reindeer sweater.](http://www.skedouche.com/naughty-sweaters.aspx) (Yes, they really do exist, in various designs. I took the liberty of making it red, for reasons. If you get a "this page does not exist" message, just enter the phrase "reindeer games" in the search box. You should find what you're looking for.)

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~This chapter doesn't have links to my "research," but future chapters should have plenty to spare.~~ :-)
> 
> Scratch that. Atlin's question reminded me that I do, indeed, have links to share.  
> [This](http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://img1.etsystatic.com/000/0/5151066/il_570xN.293383305.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.etsy.com/listing/88112635/punk-rock-christmas-stocking-regent&h=739&w=546&sz=102&tbnid=Y7WucSPAdwCYBM:&tbnh=99&tbnw=73&zoom=1&usg=__HnbN1aMuuUVtzDcKGsTqasY9H8g=&docid=1qKl0one7igVhM&sa=X&ei=p5CPUoqaKsmsqQHOjIHwDw&ved=0CGEQ9QEwBA) is the inspiration for Sherlock's stocking, though I took a few liberties. A pewter background seems much more Sherlockian.
> 
> [This](https://www.google.com/search?q=norfolk+pine+images&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=c4e4UrmBGKHayAHZ-YHACw&sqi=2&ved=0CCwQsAQ&biw=1600&bih=788) is a Nordmann fir. And this is a Norfolk pine. No word on whether it's actually possible to crossbreed a fir and a pine. I'm not a dendrologist. (The Nordmann, if Google is to be believed, is the most popular Christmas tree in England. Google also tells me the Norfolk isn't really a pine, so maybe it can be crossbred with a Nordmann.)
> 
>  
> 
> Merry Christmas to everyone in the Sherlock fandom! May the holiday season, 2014 (and S3!) be everything you want it to be!


End file.
